


Dirty Work III:  Come And Go With Me

by kalena



Category: Chuck (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-03-04
Updated: 2009-03-04
Packaged: 2017-10-18 06:38:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186056
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalena/pseuds/kalena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the morning after <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/186038">Dirty Work II</a>, and Casey has a change of heart.  Or possibly discovers he has a heart.  He's not really sure.  It's pretty unnerving, all around.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Work III:  Come And Go With Me

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: Blessed be the names of [](http://hexnessie.livejournal.com/profile)[**hexnessie**](http://hexnessie.livejournal.com/) and [](http://m-jadis.livejournal.com/profile)[**m_jadis**](http://m-jadis.livejournal.com/)  
> 

Come

  
He wakes up to a mouthful of hair with something sticky in it, which is probably an improvement over the taste of his mouth. His teeth have a slip-cover of scum that won't quit. Neither of them brushed their teeth last night. He really needs to piss. Problem is, getting up from this warmth seems not just pointless, but idiotic. A better idea is to wake Chuck up to share the joy.

It is, as well as he can remember joy. Like a cheesy movie, the whole room has a soft glow. He blames it on the early morning sun that ricochets around what were supposed to be blackout shades.

Neither of them could've moved an inch all night. Chuck's back is faintly moist where they were pressed together. The skin catches at the dry of his palm as he runs a hand down it. Chuck rolls onto his chest with a snuffle. His hair, much longer now that it's free from its daily glue, waves hello from the top of Chuck's head. He rubs a tentacle between his fingers.

Okay, it's time. His bladder's going to explode if he doesn't tap it now. He brushes his teeth while he's taking a leak to make getting up worthwhile.

Chuck is still crashed out in a faceful of pillow. How can he even breathe that way? He shifts and makes soft noises when Casey's hands scout the breadth of his back, a set of freckles on a shoulder, the rise of his ass, and then his quarry turns over. One hand slides across an ass cheek and a hipbone to cover Chuck's half-hard cock. He sips air between his lips. Chuck's cock hardens perceptibly under his fingers.

Chuck's not surprised; he did it on purpose. Casey knows it from the sloe-eyed stare and the quirk of that still-sleepy mouth. He can appreciate that. A lot. He kisses the mouth, his toothpaste overriding Chuck's morning breath. There's Mutually Assured Stubble. Chuck will probably leave his unshaven to avoid any funny looks. Casey may have to, too. He hates looking slovenly, but it's better than showing whisker burn.

They take their time. It's plenty early, time enough for Chuck to explore what he wants to while Casey stays quiet and takes it. Okay, not that quiet; he can't help the shudders that roll thorough him. Chuck is a thorough man. Casey was right about the dexterity of those long fingers. The guy's found every wound he ever took, planted a kiss on the dimple or explored the white ridge with his fingertips, like he thinks he can smooth it away from Casey's new skin.

It might be working.

He even found the spot where a couple small bones in Casey's foot fractured, from the time spent in a vise in a frigid, blood-spattered room in Caracas. It wouldn't have been quite as cold if not for the ice water. There's no scar, but Chuck rubs his face against the lumps made by bones healed unset, his will-be beard scratching lightly.

Casey took a slug to his body armor that stopped his heart once. That's what this feels like, all the oxygen used up forever.

Struggling for air, he pulls Chuck up and lands him, laughing, on top. He's holding Chuck's face and kissing it all over, while Chuck starts a gentle yield-and-push with his hips that goes on and on. Their erections skid across flat bellies slippery with sweat and juice. Holding on to Chuck's shoulders, he slows the march. Time stretches out, like when he can see the vapor trail behind the spinning bullet.

Sensei taught him to meditate, but that never got to his center like this.

His whole body is wide awake, every nerve ending firing low-level bursts. Everything outside him is a vat of corn syrup, thick and heavy, slowing movements and reactions. It's a long time before he comes. When he does, the whole world glows around him like the yellow spectrum of a detonating RPG. Chuck's moaning helplessly like the pain's unbearable, but he can't be aware of anything beyond the pull of hair caught on hair, the slip and stick of sloppy skin, and whatever's inside his head.

His eyes are open and unfocused until Casey grabs onto his ass, starts moving Chuck's body himself, tells Chuck to let go. Obediently he goes limp, closes his eyes, and comes with a low whine.

It's a while before they make it into the shower.

It's not nearly long enough before the end of everything.

Not sixty seconds after a clean and shiny – and happy and satisfied -- Chuck leaves, while Casey's downstairs putting together the pot of coffee he needs even worse than he needed a shower, it all goes to shit. The knock on the door is Walker. He lets her in without any happy good-morning crap, because the morning's not so good as it used to be. There's no reason he can think of for her to be here.

"What?"

She gives him a curious look. "What was Chuck doing sneaking out of here at this hour?"

He freezes. God, it's too soon. Too soon. He'd wanted some time, maybe even just a day. Twenty-four hours of something for himself before he has to pack it all away. He knew the whole time he planned, jerked off to, dreamed about fucking Chuck that it was a risk. Maybe even an unnecessary one.

He never knew he wouldn't be able to go through with it.

He knows now. Chuck's a good person; he knew that before. He's always been under orders to give up his own life for Chuck's. He thinks it's gone beyond that. Chuck's no longer an asset, a mark . . . a target. He deserves better than this. He deserves to be fucking somebody who won't smoke-check him when the order comes down.

Guilt is as unproductive as it is unfamiliar. Might as well do the dirty work. "None of your business. What was Larkin doing at your place last night?"

"None of your business." Then her face goes a little slack with comprehension.

He decides to help fill in the blanks. In for a penny. "He came over looking for what he couldn't get from you. He even brought me a rose. Isn't that nice?" He waves at it, a dark blush of velvet petals in its bud vase made of cut-crystal. His sneer is made of plastic. She recognizes the rose.

"You – what did you do to him?" She sounds calm, but he can tell she isn't.

What is it with these people, anyway?

Chuck had an excuse, so naïve he can't tie his own shoes, but fuck her. Fuck both of them. Casey puts a twist into the shrug and all his teeth into the smile. She's the reason this op is fucked up beyond all recognition. The acronym doesn't say enough; in his head, he uses all the words. "Taught him a little lesson, that's all," he assures her with a leer. "I didn't hurt him. Much." It has to be almost laughably evil.

He only has one long moment to appreciate the horror in her eyes.

The words stretch out, but her moves defy the speed of light. "You. Animal." She has a split-second draw and the snarl of a wolverine. The last time he heard that kind of contempt it was from a roadside bomber who didn't survive spitting on him. "I'll kill you for this."

"Hey, hey." He raises his hands in supplication and laughs. He's wondering when he developed suicidal tendencies. "Don't worry! There's enough left of him for you." Casey pushes his eyebrows up and down. "He can probably still get it up – for a woman." He hears the click. If she's pissed off enough, the last thing he hears will be the crack of a too-big bore in a too-small space.

He can't stop. There's something wrong with him, and he knows it, but he can't stop. Not even when he sees Chuck through the window he forgot to close and lock last night.

"Go away, little girl. And take him with you. He doesn't want my manly ass. He's so in love with you he'll do anything to feel better. Just fuck him already. Make us all happy."

The truth blows an exit wound between his shoulders.

She's confused now; never more so than when Chuck bursts back into his apartment.

"Sarah! Oh, my God, Sarah! Don't shoot! What are you doing?" He rushes Walker to grab the gun away, but she's pro enough to have the piece back in her pants before he gets anywhere near.

"I was. I was. Just leaving." She doesn't sound so sure. She's really rattled.

"Why were you pointing a gun at Casey?"

"I said, take him with you," he snaps.

Chuck looks between the two of them. He doesn't know what's going on; hell, Casey's light on that, too, but for once Chuck catches the drift in an eerie way. Laser sight settles on Casey. "You're . . . what? You're _giving me away_?" Incredulity fades fast, and Casey wonders if he heard their conversation, such as it was.

He's seen Chuck terrified, shocked, determined, crushed by defeat, luminous with sex. He's never seen him angry. Chuck's angry now.

His face is hard, maybe for the first time ever, his lips edged in white. "You have no right. I don't belong to you. I never did."

Ain't that the truth.

"Get out. Both of you." Casey doesn't wait for them to move; he starts walking away. They don't. It helps him a little, at least, to turn and say, very quietly, "Get out."

Sarah's eyes widen and she understands now; she's performing an extraction. Chuck in the lead, she's walking backwards out the door, half-pushing Chuck out, covering his ass and not looking away. Through the open door, he hears Walker lay rubber as she goes from 0 to 60.

When she tells Beckman he raped Chuck, he'll be a dead man. Nobody puts their operators in Leavenworth. It's too risky. Sarah will do it. The order will come down to her. She'll be fucking ecstatic to blow his shit away. He knows she was interested; he beat her to it. Sullied her sweet little innocent. She'll take him up the coast to some hidden canyon. Fake mission. He'll get down on his knees, and not in the good way.

Too bad. He wouldn't have minded a little of that.

She won't let Chuck watch him die.

Not unless Chuck really, really hates him.

Scratch all that. Fuggedaboudit. It's bullshit, he's overreacting. He won't see God over this. They won't care that much. He's skilled at what he does, the best, and what he does is not this. He's been one of the Activity's most valuable operators for nearly a decade. They need him. He'll be in Riyadh by Thursday, prone behind an M107 SASR and glassing machine gun emplacements by Saturday. He can forget all this shit with civilians and Intersects and get back to normal.

Right now, he needs that cup of coffee. Desperately.

He opens the mylar bag and dumps some into the machine's coffee filter. It's not quite right. He can't feel his fingers. He stares at the pot drip drip drip until it's got enough black liquid in it. He reaches for a clean cup. Hot coffee splashes across his knuckles. When he lifts the cup to his face, the smell of Ethiopian Harar gags him, and before he knows it, he's face-down in the sink with dry heaves. He'll never be able to drink that shit again.

For the first time, he calls in sick to the Buy More and spends the day at the range. He needs the practice.

And Go

  
"Please, Chuck. Talk to me. Tell me what happened."

"I can't." They're cornering so fast the Carerra is a pig-squealing menace. "I'm not going to get Casey in trouble for something I wanted. Even if he is an utter scumbag dickhead who gave me away like a used video game." Yeah, he did say, 'The faster we get it over with, the less it'll hurt,' but he knew it was a lie even then.

Chuck is more than a little pissed about the handoff. He almost can't believe he told off Casey, but. Jesus. They made love. He knows that like he knows Bryce had more than one reason for sending him the Intersect. Usually he's oblivious; sometimes, he knows.

Even so, pissed off is fast disintegrating into complete confusion.

WTF? has been the big question – some days, question of the hour, every hour – for so long now, almost everything you can do without bullets seems mostly harmless. This morning was a whole new level of WTFery. It's so much more personal to have John Casey lying in wait, hoping he'd come around, spider to his fly, than it is to be shot at by strangers.

Casey waiting for him was actually extremely . . . _unbelievably_ . . . hot. Face it, John Casey wanting to hook up with him was more of a wistful fantasy than Sarah has ever been. The bad part's the part where he gets tossed from the apartment where they spent the morning touching, holding, kissing. Casey can't be a man who spits out his, his . . . lovers . . . like mouthwash. He doesn't have the tenderness to waste.

The lovemaking and the next-minute dump like he's garbage are both so insane they put everything else that happened to Chuck this year into a whole crazy new bell curve.

"How can you defend him? You should have Casey up on charges, if what he said had any truth to it."

"It didn't. Don't worry about it." Oh, crap, who did that phrase come from? It sounded so much more solid coming out of Casey's mouth.

"Chuck, I promise you, this is not for my report." They're on the freeway now, and he doesn't know where they're going; Sarah doesn't seem like she cares where they're going. She passes three drivers from the inside lane like they're standing still. "We need Casey. But I'm having him prosecuted for this unless you convince me otherwise! Talk to me!"

Prosecuted. Oh, God. If he doesn't talk, she might.

Even though he thinks she's lying, or at least crossing her fingers behind her back, he really needs somebody to talk to. Talking is healthy, except for when it's going to get him killed. His therapist never told him about that part. Most people probably don't have to worry about it. Plus on top of all that, his knuckles are turning white. "Slow down and I'll talk!"

Maybe that's what she was trying for in the first place. He hopes she's not quite that petty. She peels into a parking lot; he almost goes out the window when she stomps the brakes. "Where are the cops when you're driving? Even I got a speeding ticket once!"

But she's not listening, she's moving. She's across the gearshift, touching his face, his scalp, stripping his shirt half off before he can respond. For a minute he thinks it's the weirdest, most inappropriate come-on ever. Then he realizes she's checking for damage.

"Are you bruised? Casey knows how to make it invisible."

Oh, yeah.

If he's lucky, nobody will ever see how he got sucker punched. This time he doesn't want to expose all the bruising. Maybe he can learn to keep his mouth shut after all. "He didn't hurt me! Why do you think he hurt me?"

"Spill, Chuck!"

Talking is what he does. So he does it.

"And I thought it was nice, and not just nice – it was, it was," he trails off, finally remembering who he's talking to and that if she likes him, she's going to be upset. She doesn't look upset. She looks strangely . . . intrigued. "Why would he do that? Why would he kind of seduce me, and then wait for me to come back, only to toss me out like a dried-up sandwich?"

She doesn't answer.

"Seriously, I mean it," Chuck insists, but he's transfixed by her never-before-seen puzzled kitten face. It's incredibly cute. He's not quite sure why he doesn't want to kiss her. Didn't he want to kiss her yesterday? He's so caught up in expecting her to ask for a cheezburger that he almost misses the first words. Her voice is fainter than usual, less sure, and he almost has to lean in to hear.

"Oh, God. I think Casey might like you."

"Oh, really? How do you figure? He _gave me away_. That's not liking me a lot."

"But he gave you to me," she says finally, as if that makes more sense. "He said you're so in love with me you'll do anything to feel better."

"I . . . I wouldn't say, you know, _anything_ \-- "

"There's something you have to understand about Casey," she broke in. "He's not a people-person."

"More so than, say, Godzilla." Okay, there's a little resentment there.

"I'm telling you that he wasn't under orders to seduce you. It makes no sense. If our bosses wanted you seduced, they'd have ordered me." She sighs and sinks farther down in her seat, pleating the orange skirt between her fingers. He has an even better view of her cleavage, and the skirt's practically up to her . . .

"Oookay."

"You have no history of interest in men, and I think they were well aware of your interest in . . . women."

"I guess I wasn't keeping it a secret." He really needs to work on that.

"Handlers seduce their people to manipulate them. I think he meant to."

This is all a little too complicated. "For what? I'm working with you! I'm one of you!"

"This is not what Casey usually does. You _know_ what he does. He's assigned targets, not cases. He spent time in Colombia, so deep under cover he didn't have a conversation in English for two years."

"Uh . . . blue eyes?"

"They fixed that."

He stares at her, a little horrified.

"Chuck, you know I wouldn't even talk to you about this if you didn't have it all in your head anyway." She shakes her own head in frustration. "He doesn't know how to work with people. He only knows how to work people. He wanted something. I think he wanted to tie you to him. I think it backfired."

"What do you mean?"

"He's a man who sees in black and white. He has to. He could never kill people for a living otherwise. No decent person could."

"Yeah, but . . ."

"What do you think would happen if, after all this time, he started seeing colors?"

  


With Me

He knows they're fucking. He thinks they might be happy.

It doesn't make him happy.

It does explain why he's not getting his orders in the Emerald City, letting the blowing sand erode layer after layer of memory. Chuck must've convinced Sarah to let it go. Chuck's persuasive that way. Dumb ass. They covered for him. Nobody's covered for him in as long as he can remember. It feels good, a tiny flame he can't seem to snuff out.

He wishes they hadn't done it. He'd rather be anywhere but here.

He never liked to watch. Between those two, there's a thrust in every glance, naked satisfaction in every brush of fingers. There's tongue in the kisses they exchange when Walker enters the Buy More and knowledge in their whispers. Guess Bartowski got over that fear of PDAs.

He's not looking. He's not. But sometimes he can't help but see. The knowing etches his skin like acid.

It's getting harder to pack things away . . . at least this thing. He doesn't know what it is with this smart, stupid kid who somehow walked a lifetime's worth of minefields and blew through the obstacle course straight into Casey. There couldn't be anybody less suited to him. Well, okay, there's Grimes. There are a lot of people. Just look at the Nerd Herd. That really doesn't help Casey's state of mind.

He wonders if he's getting old, but then, he was always too old for this job. Any interest in that kid has to be him reverting to childhood, back when more things were possible. Some men buy cars. Some men buy beautiful women like Sarah, or beautiful boys like Chuck. Some men quit their jobs and go sailing. He's not one of them.

He's a man who does his job, and does it right. He always thought it was because he believed. He does believe. But now he knows there's another reason. He does his job because he's got nowhere else to go. There is nothing else. If he could, he'd go now. Do it now.

He stays.

If his body wants to gravitate toward Chuck's under the harsh fluorescents of the Buy More, it's only because he's got orders: protect with his life. Like the rest of him, his body believes.

If his hand wants to reach out and touch Chuck's face after a mission, it's just to make sure it's whole. But it's something he needs to erase. Maybe it's like Father Muldowney used to say – the problem is in sparing the rod. Maybe he can beat it out.

He's sitting in the La-Z-Boy with a second glass of Scotch when he gets this bright idea. He doesn't go up to bed. Bed's too personal. Some nights it's too personal to sleep in. Good thing they didn't fuck on every piece of furniture, or he'd never get a decent night's sleep. He runs a hand across his denim-covered crotch, and his dick rises to meet it. Yeah, this is gonna work. He just wants to . . . be there, one more time, and then let it go away.

With every stroke he can feel Chuck's weight settling on him. It's too dry for the memory, and he splashes some Scotch on his dick to make it wet. It burns, but he likes it. It's some kind of punishment. He takes another long slug before he puts the glass down, and that burns too. Just right for dissolving what's gone by. If he could suck his own dick, it'd scorch a perfect circle.

Instead, it's Chuck's lips he feels, soft and steady, siphoning off all the confusion and pain, the best blow job he never got.

It's all good until Chuck's hands on him turn into Chuck's hands on her. They're so sexy together, hot and sweet in a way it can never be for him, cause Chuck's not looking for a man, and he's not looking for The Maker. His own nipples tighten against the weave of his shirt when Chuck licks her breast to its pink tip. He moans, helpless. Chuck's curly hair nestles in her curly hair as he buries his face in her cunt. The noises he makes are small and needy, and her moans fill the room.

He can't change the channel. He's too close and it won't switch back for wanting. He gives in. His hand follows the rhythm of Chuck moving into Sarah's body, taking her, holding her, possessing her. Harder, faster, more, and when Chuck cries out her name he comes so hard it hurts.

Casey sleeps on the couch that night. He doesn't touch himself again.

He hits the gym every chance he gets, day or night. It pushes the need out of his muscles from the inside, sweats it out of his pores.

Some nights, lying in bed, he wishes he could get rid of them both and be free. It would be so easy. Any mission can go wrong in a thousand small ways. But that would cross every line he holds. He would never chew his own leg off to escape this. Some afternoons, standing in the Buy More, he intercepts a long look from Chuck, who either hates his guts or feels sorry for him or both. He can't decide, and he would never ask. It's not like they talk to each other.

The people at work stay out of his way.

Except Big Mike, who comes up to him on the floor one day and asks him if he's okay. Yeah. His fake boss, the man who hides in his office because he's freaked the fuck out by his crew of cretins, approaches the only man here who's truly dangerous . . . to offer help. That's when Casey knows he's hit bottom. There's got to be a funny line in this, a snide comment he'd never say even to a fake boss, but he can't find it. "I'm fine, sir."

It gets better with Jill. Instead of being livid that Chuck's got another outside line, he's grateful. Jill means that his asset was never fucking his partner. Chuck wouldn't do that. And Casey knows exactly how desperate Chuck is, poor bastard; desperate enough to fuck him. Chuck needs this. He needs it for Chuck.

In fact, he feels damned good about it. It puts a spring into his step and a smirk on his face to know he fucked Chuck and Sarah didn't. He likes Sarah a lot better when she's not sleeping with Chuck. Casey starts drinking coffee in the morning again. It tastes good; really, really good. He's not even angry when Chuck sneaks off with the little Jill bitch.

Okay, he's pissed as hell, but it's real anger, not that gnawing sickness that shreds his gut.

It's too bad she turns out to be Fulcrum, but realistically, Fulcrum is Chuck's best bet. Unlike Casey's NSA bosses, Fulcrum will want to keep Chuck alive no matter what. Sure, they're the bad guys. But they'd give Chuck a chance in hell. He's kind of surprised the kid hasn't figured that out yet, or maybe he's just that loyal – to him and Sarah, if not the U S of A. Like Casey, he's willing to go out for what he believes in. Chuck has his own version of black and white.

The world slowly rights itself, more like situation normal now. The nerds and the greenshirts start looking him in the face again. Some days they even say hello.

Casey begins to believe the civilian version of ordinary. It's a rookie mistake that people like him can't make and live. He's gone marshmallow, all the way through. He doesn't even know it until, during a private debriefing, General Beckman says, "Major Casey, I believe Mr. Bartowski is becoming a loose cannon."

Always.

Casey straightens. "General, he's been invaluable in tracing Fulcrum agents." It's the best he can do off the cuff. He doesn't want Chuck buried underground. Please, he thinks, not that. "It's imperative that he be on the streets, available to scan his surroundings. He's leading us to the heart of this mess, and he's done singular work against other global threats as well. No one else can do what he does."

He breathes again when she agrees. "That's exactly what I'm thinking, John. However, his behavior with young women is becoming problematic. I want you to do something about it."

It takes effort to keep his jaw where it belongs. "With all due respect, I can't remove every young female in Los Angeles, Ma'am." Hell, he can't even believe she's asking him to.

"I am referring to another of your valuable skills. Roan informs me that he failed you for spurious reasons, and that you are quite capable of seducing Mr. Bartowski and holding his interest."

That's quite an accolade, all things considered. He doesn't consider it. He's so shaken he needs a moment to get his shit together. Two months ago, he'd have been thrilled. Now, not so much. Now it feels like there's a glowing red dot on his sternum. He hasn't broken a sweat on any mission since Afghanistan, and he's not going to in front of Beckman.

"Agent Walker has considerably more aptitude and suitability for the tactic you describe. She would be the best choice."

"And why is that, Major?"

He hopes to God she'll listen to him. "She's been a party to at least one long-lasting relationship in the last five years, General. I haven't. And as far as I know, Chuck has never shown any sexual interest in men."

Her snort makes him flinch. He hopes she didn't notice. It's not likely. "I'm sorry, Major Casey, but Agent Walker will be busy enough for the near future, and I want this taken care of immediately."

Busy enough how, polishing yogurt nozzles? What will she be doing that's need-to-know?

She rolls over his unvoiced demand like an armored Hummer. "Roan assures me that anyone could seduce Mr. Bartowski." Her eyes excavate trenches in his self-possession. "Did Chuck or did he not kiss you during the poisoning scare at the biotech conference?"

Sarah. Chuck told Sarah. Sarah told Beckman. That insane bitch. What was she thinking? He'll kill her. He'll _hurt_ her. She's a fucking destroying angel. "Yes, ma'am, he did. He said he meant to save my life."

The thin smile makes his skin crawl. "You're not Sleeping Beauty, Major Casey, and you will seduce Chuck Bartowski. You will use every ruse, ploy, artifice and contrivance to keep him interested in you and away from outside interference. These are your orders. See to it that you follow them implicitly." Her face vanishes.

Fuck. He's fucked.

All he can do is go home.

The fact that he calls it home says a lot about how much has changed. He needs a drink, bad, so he takes the bottle of Macallan over to the chair and remembers Chuck coming to his apartment that night when Casey jerked him off. It feels like a long time ago. It's like looking back across millenia from the Age Of Reason. Operators live in dog years. Most men his age are dead.

Dead is an option that comes with every mission. Crazy's another one. It's an occupational hazard. The isolation, the loneliness, and the stress can break the toughest men. He's been captured, he's been tortured, and he's contemplated crazy more in the last couple months than he ever did in his life. But never once did he think he might go soft.

He didn't dump the kid because Chuck deserves a lover who won't light him up. He did it because he can't face ending someone he cares about.

As if not fucking him solved that little problem.

When did he start caring about his own feelings? Probably around the time he started caring about Chuck's, and occasionally even moved on to Sarah's. Now the rock's in back, with tall, dark and doofus out front. Casey never liked in-between. In this case, there is no middle ground. He can 1: follow orders, or 2: shitcan his career, his entire reason for living, on a brain fart. He pours himself another. It's going down smooth. His mind is getting blanker by the sip. He doesn't know what to do, so he doesn't do anything except have another drink.

Until the doorbell rings.

Right. Isn't that the way the world ends, with a trill instead of a bang?

It's after dark. At least it's after dark in his apartment; he has no idea if there's light in the sky. There's no reason for him to stand up and move -- very slowly, his joints protesting -- toward the door. Walker, maybe. What the hell would she want? She told Beckman that Chuck kissed him. Why? She couldn't be happy with the result. Fuck, maybe she's here to kill him. He's been in her crosshairs for weeks now; he just doesn't know why. He eyes the loaded Sig 1911 on the side table before he checks the surveillance camera.

To his chagrin, he never expected the Chuck Bartowski. Nobody ever did.

Casey lets Chuck in. That's just the way it goes.

He uses the remote to punch in the code. Whatever Chuck wants, it's better said from a distance. "It's open."

"Casey, Casey, John -- "

Chuck lopes into the apartment and leaps.

Tactically it's brilliant. Casey's grab for the nonexistent pistol in his waistband – instinct rules -- aborts to catch a flying Chuck. His legs clap around Casey's waist and his hands go for a death grip. It almost shocks the breath out of him. Despite all the time at the gym, Casey staggers. He catches but doesn’t release. His hands are full of firm geek ass, and he can't let go. Chuck is all over him, kissing any bare skin, the collar of his shirt, his ear, his hair.

He almost drops Chuck flat on his sweet patootie, but the searching tongue erases that idea. His mouth can't remember why it should return the package. Plus there's another package waiting for him. He pulls Chuck in tighter to make sure it's true: Chuck's already hard. His tongue is making itself at home in Casey's mouth. He was good before, but now he's got _moves_. Spend enough time with trained operators . . . apparently this is the one thing Chuck learns by example.

It's just as well there's a wall to prop them up. The foot planted in his sacrum, he'll feel that later. Good thing Chuck doesn't wear street shoes. A wave of happiness drags Casey spinning into the undertow.

When he surfaces for air, shaking his head like a dog, he thinks he might have enough strength to push Chuck away, though his body has ideas of its own. His nemesis slides reluctantly off, feet to the floor.

"What are you doing here?" It's all he can come up with. Even so, his words are low and ragged. He can hardly make himself say them. It's been too long. He's already aching. Talk isn't what he needs now, and his dick reminds him of that. It wants to stand at attention, but it's caught almost painfully in his boxers. He doesn't reach down to rearrange himself.

"Mmmm, you taste like scotch," says Chuck. The tip of his tongue follows the curved edge that holds the fullness of his bottom lip. "It's not safe out there." Soft-eyed, serious, like he thinks Casey should understand him. Then again, he always thinks that.

"What?" Holding him at arms' length, Casey searches for clues and finds none.

"I'm a danger to myself and others." He sounds like a parrot, bwaaaak, but he really means it, Casey can tell. It's what he's been saying himself, thinking all this time, but now it's coming straight from the last person on earth. "I'm going to get you and Sarah killed and the Intersect captured by Fulcrum if nothing changes." His arms are long, and as far away as he is -- _much too close_ \-- he reaches out to touch Casey's cheek. The touch sparks a shiver he can't suppress. "I need you."

Casey's body and his head are at war, armed conflict between what he wants and what he wants. His crisis of conscience wins out. He's been living the bad dream for months. "I've," he croaks, and starts again. "I'm under orders." Somehow Chuck is moving into the circle of his arms instead of being held away.

"Yeah." Chuck looks at him, big-eyed and guilty. "About that . . ."

His spine hardens to concrete. He's got Chuck up against the wall, holding him by the throat, by the time the anguish lashes out. "What did you do? What did you fucking do?"

The pretty mouth moves, but no sound comes out, and as much as he doesn't want to, he eases his grip. He doesn't move back. His body almost vibrates this close to its quarry.

"Sarah thought you'd come back. When. After Jill. I, I knew you wouldn't."

"Yes?" Even Casey hadn't known how much threat he could insinuate in one word.

"I asked her to fix this for me."

Sarah.

"Let me get this straight. The orders to fuck you were your idea."

Chuck nods dumbly, his chin bumping Casey's wrist.

"You wanted me." Which is weird enough all by itself. "You decided to force me to do what you wanted." It's an admirable solution. Quick and to the point. Chuck's going to be a player some day. Good boy. "Wrong move, dumbshit. I had my own reasons for not wanting to bone your ass."

They're so close Chuck doesn't have to move his body to cup Casey's face in his hands. Holding on carefully, reverently, he looks into Casey's eyes and whispers, "You love me, John Casey. I wasn't wrong. Nobody ordered you to sleep with me, but you did. And you freaked out."

Casey feels red heat bloom down his neck. He's so enraged he doesn't even bother to defend himself. "Scared?" he sneers. He jams a thigh tighter into Chuck's bulge. The kid really is a dummy, or maybe he gets off on it. He can't say it, it's a deal-breaker, it's fucking _treason_. You don't goat-fuck an operation on your own recognizance. "You think I was scared? You're right. I was shit-scared. Do you want to know why? _Do you_?"

He sees _Well, do you, punk?_ scroll past Chuck's eyes. All righty, then. He's going to pull this trigger. "Let me tell you something, you moron. Your life was never going to go back to normal after the new Intersect was built."

"What do you mean?" The words come out in a hush. Chuck's thoughts turn cartwheels across his face. "You said – you said . . . the future might not be what I thought." Skull, meet brick.

"Get it? I was never here to protect you."

"But! But you did!" The big eyes beg him to take it back. "You've always protected me!"

"I was the backup in case Sarah's 'gentle touch' didn't work. I still am. Whose bullet do you think had your name on it when the new Intersect came online?" Casey doesn't even care when the panicked eyes fill with tears.

"No. You can't. You couldn't have."

"I would have. You were pouring wine and practicing your pitch to Sarah." He leans in another micron, watches Chuck remember.

"You were there." Amazed. "You didn't. You didn't do it!"

"I would have." It's got the finality of a funeral.

Everything spills over. "Jake, I'm so sorry. I didn't know. Please, Jake, I didn't know, I'm sorry."

The kiss is wet as Chuck holds his face like he might try to wrench away, but Casey knows better. The name alone shakes him. He's trapped; he did it to himself. Chuck's just the clanging cell door. So he gives back as good as he gets, tongue and teeth, forcing himself to conquer that talking mouth.

Chuck. Feels sorry for him. Because he was going to put Chuck down like an animal.

The taste of warm skin meets his lips. A surprisingly smooth cheek slides by. In his head, he's exhausted. He's stumbling along like he sprinted a mile. "Sorry, my ass. I'll kill you," he pants into Chuck's ear. "I will kill you, if they tell me to." He bites down for emphasis, freezing at the bark of a laugh.

"Unless you help me, you won't have to. I'll be dead long before that. You might be, too, from some dumb thing I do." His voice breaks; for a second he sounds young and lost. Their bodies are clenched together like a jaw, hard up against the wall. Chuck's legs clamp behind his knees, holding him there. His heart pumps against Casey's ribs. His words have an unfamiliar undertone. "Of all the Buy Mores in all the towns in all the world, the bad guys walk into mine. That doesn't even count the ones we go looking for."

Despite the movie quote, this doesn't sound like the kid he knows. Somehow, he sounds like Casey. It makes the real Casey uneasy.

Chuck dips his head. "Things happen," he puffs along Casey's neck. "Things change. Maybe they already gave up on the new Intersect. Maybe they want more. When I got the update from Bryce, there was video. I don't know how it survived the explosion. I saw them getting more agents to do what I did. That's what happened when Intersect II: Revenge Of The Clone went boom. Graham wasn't the only one to die."

It knocks the breath out of him, and the words are a wheeze. "You didn't -- fucking say. Could've."

"I didn't know I was supposed to die!" Chuck kisses the corner of his mouth. "They want me. They need me. I might be the only one. I'll survive, if I get some training." Warm breath steals into Casey's ear. "And I know who I want it from."

Casey reads every possible bit of meaning into that line. God help him, he wants it, too. He wants everything. "What the fuck are you smoking?"

"Train me. Keep me alive. I can do it. I will do it." Chuck never was short of courage, just common sense. Looks like he's acquired some of that, too. There's determination around eyes that are older than they were a couple weeks ago. "I talked to Sarah about the Fulcrum agent she shot Christmas Eve. She lied to me, did you know about that?" Casey nods. "It made me . . . I don't know. I've been. Thinking." He hangs his head. "I knew it wasn't a game. I knew that."

"But there's more."

"Yeah."

For the first time he really understands Chuck. Same shit, different day. His own warning light came on in free-fall at 27,000 feet. He always knew things could go wrong, no matter how prepared his team was. In that instant, he saw the resulting splatter.

"Come on, soldier."

The liquor sabotages him all at once. Casey doesn't know how he makes it up the stairs. He thinks Chuck helps him as much as he does it himself. He's always been twisted tight as a garotte, but during the last few months he nearly snapped. It's been a special hell. The pull from both ends was all that was holding him up. He's crumbling into dust now and it's drifting off, leaving only a small heap of rubble too heavy for the wind to carry.

Nothing left for him, nothing for Chuck. Can't train somebody with a pile of crumbs. Call in the cleanup crew. Hansel and Gretel. He laughs. Chuck stops them in the doorway, turns his head. His lips are right there, so Casey kisses them. Soft, no slurp or suction, no sex at all. A thank you for hauling him up the stairs. He feels like he ought to say thank you. But for what? Fixing the problem? Fucking setting him up?

In the bedroom, he knows there’s still one useful item in the pile of crap. The body he’s spent years honing into a weapon, it’s what Chuck wants. Sex is the all-purpose language. Say anything. Come closer, thank you, I own your ass. He's said those things. I want you. I need you. Casey's ready to say something. He’s not hard any more, but he could get there. Probably. Chuck’s arm is still around his waist. They’re so very close.

“What do you want?” Casey’s voice is hoarse, odd.

“What?” Chuck’s surprised. He shouldn’t be so surprised.

“Anything. You can have anything. Take it.” He gets a clouded look in response.

“Jake,” Chuck says softly. “You had a rough day, buddy.”

There isn’t anything to talk about, after all.

There’s nothing to do but let Chuck take his clothes off, gently, piece by piece, with only the boxers left behind. Casey lifts his feet on command, even though they’re so heavy he thinks he might not be able to. He’s led to the bed, where the covers have magically turned themselves down. He has a glimmer of hope when Chuck toes off his shoes and removes his belt, maybe Chuck really was listening, wants to talk, but he doesn’t take anything else off, just settles Casey down and tucks him in. How weird is that.

Then Chuck moves around to the other side, and, thank God, climbs in behind him.

He hears _teach me to shoot_ and _karate chop with a spinning kick_ and _defused that bomb_ and even _pistol in your pants_ but he doesn't know if that's video games or sex. He's too busy paying attention to the tiny movement of soft lips against his hair, the pulse of breath behind his ear, a welcome hand massaging his shoulder. He tries to stay awake to enjoy it, but sleep drugs him, kidnaps him and hauls him away.

Hours later he wakes up disoriented, burning to piss and with a throbbing hangover. It takes longer than it should to untangle himself from the covers and from Chuck. He almost stumbles on his way to the can. Jesus, he didn't have that much to drink, did he? Moisture-deprived brain cells are screaming he did. Or maybe it was the coffee for breakfast, power bar for lunch, and scotch for dinner.

He closes the door, turns on the light, grimaces at the needles that skewer his retinas, turns it back off. It's not necessary to see if you sit down. Well, it's never necessary to see, but in his own goddamn bathroom he's not going to piss all over the floor. There's a bottle of liquid Tylenol in the cabinet. Eyes closed, he finds it by feel up behind his head. Slugging straight from the bottle, he chases it with two glasses of disgustingly lukewarm water.

He feels better already.

Getting the fur off his teeth helps some more. He turns the light back on to squeeze the toothpaste. After a couple minutes with his eyes shut, the light's not as painful. He could've toughed it out, just gone back to bed, but after a hellish couple months there's light in his scope. A good night's sleep – something he hasn't seen for a while -- and some pain relief is in order.

Arms and legs take up every inch of the bed when he gets back. It's a good thing the outdoor security lights provide some illumination in the bedroom or they'd both have bruises now. How Chuck can cover the entire California king is a mystery that makes Casey's eyes cross. When he tries to lift an arm, Chuck startles awake instantly, freezing in place like a rabbit.

" 's okay, I just want in." He knows about waking up by surprise in a strange place. He thinks Chuck might know about that, too. The whole world's become a much stranger place for him. It takes Chuck a moment to rearrange his limbs; then he silently holds the covers open for Casey to slide in. It's nice to be in the warm spot he left behind. Chuck scootches up against him and now there are buttons digging into his arm.

"Clothes?" It's more like an interrogative grunt than a real question. He's hoping the Tylenol starts working soon.

"I . . . yeah. It just didn't seem right."

He almost laughs, except his head would fall off. "Afraid I'd take advantage of you?"

"No! Of course not!"

The denial is too loud for comfort, right next to his ear. It was just a joke. Only Chuck would be gallant enough not to strip down before climbing in with a drunk. Save Casey from himself. "Take 'em off," he orders. He feels Chuck start to firm up under the chinos at the very idea. It'd be poetic justice for all those days when Casey got hard enough to whimper just staring at Chuck across the Buy More. Before he can think about noses and spite, he says, "Not tonight, honey, I've got a headache."

Chuck doesn't miss a beat. "Let me do it."

For a second he thinks he's going to get that blowjob he's waited so long for, but Chuck starts petting his head like he's a beagle. It feels really good. Fingertips press spirals across his forehead, dig hard at the temples, find painful spots on his scalp and erase them with a touch. Damned if he doesn't feel the headache recede. He's relaxing slowly, inch by inch; he can feel those fingers down to the soles of his feet. It's like they're all over. He moans with relief, low in his throat.

That was the signal, he guesses, when the magic fingers start stroking down the tendons in his neck, caressing his arms, sculpting his chest. They're rubbing his nipples between thumb and forefinger, wringing more moans out. It's all so slow. He's floating on pleasure. He feels his dick harden like it's being touched, too. It's not. Chuck's sucking his nipples, licking his chest, no hands. He marks the ripple of Casey's abs with his tongue.

He's talking. He's telling Casey how strong, how brave, how wonderful he is. He's not sure he can believe it, but it's seductive as hell.

Casey can't tell if Chuck's speaking out loud or not.

The hands come back, long, wide strokes along his ribs and hipbones, and all Casey can do is float in Chuck's hands, hoping they'll make their way to his needy cock. Chuck leans down and takes his mouth like he's storming Basra. Maybe he's got something to prove. Casey strategically submits, lets him in, lets him do whatever he wants, lets Chuck tongue-fuck his mouth. He's got Casey right where he wants him, groaning and gasping. Somehow the clothes are gone. Chuck drops carefully on top of him and he revels in the weight, sorry only that he's still got his boxers on. He shoves his hips up eagerly.

The quick slide downward takes him by surprise. So does the luxurious heat around his dick. The covers shunted aside, Chuck simply pulls him out of his boxers and starts sucking, the same way he battered down the gates everywhere else. Why is Casey surprised now? He can't last with those speaking lips, hot mouth sucking him dry, rocking him to the core, one of those strong hands wrapped around the base of his cock. He can't last, he's been waiting for this too long. Forever.

Chuck doesn't try to swallow, smart man, he just lets it gush out the side of his mouth. The silky wetness under the stroking hand draws out his orgasm until the sensation threatens to overwhelm him. He has to let it escape, crying out over and over, no shame, his hips jerking in time.

When his eyes clear again, he sees Chuck open-mouthed, up on his knees, surveying what he's wrought. Casey's a mess and he knows it, but Chuck has a triumphant, crazy grin as he yanks himself from root to tip. His lips are shiny. He didn't wipe his mouth. There's come trailing down his chin. He's radiant and powerful in the dim light, more beautiful than anything Casey deserves.

"Oh, my God, Jake, I – you're – oh, God, oh, God!" He paints Casey's belly with ragged white stripes and, in slow motion, collapses on top of them.

It takes them both a while to catch their breath. They're laying side by side. Casey's not sleepy. He's still buzzed. He feels like he inhaled, and he's wide awake. He can tell Chuck feels the same. Their hearts are finally slowing. They're looking at each other; he touches the pulse in Chuck's throat. "Where'd you learn that?" he whispers.

"You." A whisper back.

"Not the blowjob."

"Oh."

He hears Chuck trying to think back now that it's a lot more difficult, and smiles.

"Ellie. She took a massage class once."

"She's got some bedside manner."

Chuck takes this as his cue to start talking pointless bullshit, but it's still soft and low as he feathers Casey's pecs with his knuckles. "What'd you want to be when you grew up?"

He's so hypnotized by the warm caress and soft eyes he actually answers. He never got Anti-Chuck training. "Cowboy."

"Why?"

"Ride the range. Save the town."

"Gunslinger. One of the good guys."

"Yeah."

"You made it."

He never thought about it like that. "I . . . I guess so." Hell, he never thought about anything from when he was a kid. Now he's curious. "What'd you want to be?"

"Superman."

Of course. This time he does laugh, and it doesn't hurt at all. "You have a cape?"

"Uh huh. Pajamas. I jumped off the garage roof once."

"Break your arm?"

"Leg. I still think it's what made Ellie want to be a doctor."

"Good, then." He reaches over to pat Chuck on the ass. He's never been in bed naked in the middle of the night with a willing partner, having a conversation. He'd remember that. It's too close to each other, too apart from the world, too strange and intimate to forget. He doesn't know whether he likes it. And now Casey knows why the goddamned sandwiches. It's what people do when they're not fucking. They talk. I'm here, you're here, we talk to prove it.

It's just that Grimes and Bartowski don't fuck, and they've talked about everything else already. So, sandwiches. He still doesn't want to listen to it, but at least it makes some sense now.

"Yeah, it hurt a lot, thanks for caring." But Chuck's smiling too, he can hear it.

It's weird, but it's . . . maybe it's okay.

He shakes off enough lethargy to shove a heavy arm under Chuck and wrap him over on top, full contact. Chuck's body heat surrounds him.

And.

They're talking, anyway.

There's something he can't stand not to know. Even though he knows how desperate Chuck is to be with somebody – hell, anybody – he still can't fathom the attraction. He tells himself he's asking on a professional basis. The question's happening. It's up behind his front teeth. Gritting them isn't doing any good. Short of duct tape, nothing can stop it. He goes ahead and humiliates himself. There's no plausible deniability. He can't even come up with his tough voice. "You gonna stick with this?"

"Duh."

At least Chuck _thinks_ he means it. But it's not much of an answer. "Get real, lover boy. You know what I am."

"Yep." He yawns, hiding part of it behind a hand. "You're the biggest, meanest son of a bitch in the valley. And you like me. You really like me."

He needs more than that. He's about to beg. He hates it, but it's burning a hole in his gut.

Then he realizes: this is the thing about Chuck. He'll call a girl twenty-seven times to apologize for something that wasn't even his fault. Asking him for reassurance isn't even a blip on the radar. It's a kind of freedom Casey couldn't have imagined. He mutters, "What about Jill? What about Sarah? There are a lot of pretty women in the world."

"You're crazy beautiful. You're a good man. The best." Chuck palms slowly up the side of his still-sticky belly and chest. "You're freaking . . . amazing." Leaning back against Casey's arm, he uses a fingertip to draw an anatomically incorrect heart over Casey's real one. It makes Casey tingle inside and out. "And I love you, too."

Looks like they're both going to hold on, at least for as long as they can.

"We'll see how that works after tomorrow's five mile run."

Chuck snorts, thinks he's kidding, and yeah, okay, he is. He knows how training works, and they've got to start slow. What they can build up to depends on it. How long it lasts is nothing he can predict. Either of them could die tomorrow. He'll do his best to make sure it doesn't happen, and his best _is_ the best. Chuck could make a good partner. He's smart, a unique and invaluable asset, and maybe he's found a purpose. He wants to stay alive, if nothing else.

"Go to sleep, Man Of Steel."

Chuck whuffs against Casey's neck and snuggles down. It won't hurt to make some contingency plans, but not tonight. And he's not going to worry about it too much.

He's lived without a safety net for so long, there's no point in macrame now.

  


_Fin_


End file.
